He gave her a long look; then shook his head, but did not speak.

“Endeavor to keep up your spirits, dearest papa; you seem depressed, but that is natural after what you have suffered.  Will you take the composing draught?  It will relieve you.”

“I believe it will, but I cannot take it from your hand; and he kept his eyes fixed upon her with a melancholy gaze as he spoke.

“And why not from mine, papa?  Surely you would not change your mind now.  You have taken all your medicine from me, up to this moment.”

“I will take it myself, presently, Lucy.”

“Will you promise me, papa?” she said, endeavoring to smile.

“Yes, Lucy, I promise you.”

“But, papa, I had forgotten to say that Lord Dunroe has called to ask an interview with me.  He and Dean Palmer are now in the drawing-room.”

“Have you seen him?” asked her father.

“Not yet, papa.”

“Will you see him?”

“Lord Cullamore sent the Dean to me to say, that it was his earnest request I should—­his last.”

“His last!  Lucy.  Well, then, see him—­there is a great deal due to a last request.”

“Oh, yes, I shall see him.  Well, good-by, papa.  Remember now that you take the composing draught; I shall return to you after I have seen Lord Dunroe.”

She was closing the door, when he recalled her.  “Lucy,” said he, “come here.”

“Well, papa; well, dearest papa?”

“Kiss me again,” said he.

She stooped as before, and putting her arms about his neck, kissed him like a child.  He took her hand in his, and looked on her with the same long earnest look, and putting it to his lips, kissed it; and as he did, Lucy felt a tear fall upon it.  “Lucy,” said he, “I have one word to say to you.”

Lucy was already in tears; that one little drop—­the symptom of an emotion she had never witnessed before—­and she trusted the forerunner of a softened and repentant heart, had already melted hers.

“Lucy,” he said, “forgive me.”

The floodgates of her heart and of her eyes were opened at once.  She threw herself on his bosom; she kissed him, and wept long and loudly.

He, in the meantime, had regained the dread composure, that death-like calmness, into which he had passed from his frenzy.

“Forgive you, papa?  I do—­I do, a thousand times; but I have nothing to forgive.  Do I not know that all your plans and purposes were for my advancement, and, as you hoped, for my happiness?”

“Lucy,” said he, “disgrace is hard to bear; but still I would have borne it had my great object in that advancement been accomplished; but now, here is the disgrace, yet the object lost forever.  Then, my son, Lucy—­I am his murderer; but I knew it not; and even that I could get over; but you, that is what prostrates me.  And, again, to have been the puppet of that old villain!  Even that, however, I could bear; yes, everything but you!—­that was the great cast on which my whole heart was set; but now, mocked, despised, detested, baffled, detected, defeated.  However, it is all over, like a troubled dream.  Dry your eyes now,” he added, “and see Dunroe.”